Showing posts with label Arthur Broomfield. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Arthur Broomfield. Show all posts

Short Fiction: For sale: child’s shoes, never worn

Arthur Broomfield
After reading Ernest Hemingway’s ‘for sale: baby shoes, never worn.’

---Arthur Broomfield


Entrepreneurs’ weather, I was thinking, wishing I had gone into business instead of law. There was a spring in my step that bright May morning as I strolled with my paper from the corner Spar. A soft breeze carried the scent of fresh bread from Jules’ bakery as I headed towards my favourite coffee shop.  I was looking forward to reading the verdict in the O’Reilly case, over a cappuccino in Costa, across the street.                                                               

It was sellotaped to the right-hand corner of Herbie’s shoe shop window.   A huddle of middle-aged women having drawn my attention to its location. .One of them was reading aloud. The group was assembled in the kind of loose formation you could see from a rugby team who’d conceded a try. Some were waving and pointing to the notice. As I got closer I became aware of a babble of doleful ohs and ahs, the low murmurs, the slowly nodding heads, the postures, akin to mourners at a funeral home 

I could hear the woman I recognized as Mary Murphy read …SHOES…NEVER...WORN.  Mary had helped to rear us when my mother had been taken ill.  I glanced at it, cautiously, as an ‘Irish Times’ reader might, thinking I could hardly share an interest in shoes with women who wore Lidl runners and anoraks a size too small. I nodded towards them, politely and upped my pace, glancing at the lead story in the Times as I hastened on.       

‘Did you…did you... see this, Mr. Hennessey?’    Mary Murphy’s voice trembled.                                                                                                        

‘Oh, good morning, Mary’.                                                                              

 ‘It’s there above the women, take a look at it, will ye’.                                  

‘Well, well…I am in a bit of a hurry Mary’.                                                   

‘Stand back girls, please, and let Mr. Hennessey see what he can make of it.’  

Apathy would best sum up my mood as I, the sole representative of the uncurious, moved through the huddle.                                                  

‘Go ahead and read it Mr Hennessey’. Mary wasn’t letting go.

I glanced at the notice without reading it, feigning interest to please Mary. The other women moved in closer to me. The chatter stopped.  I was the centre of attention for an expectant group of women that I otherwise would not have acknowledged, and I must admit I felt somewhat uneasy. I had seen some of them from time to time in Dr Hoban’s surgery. One regular   - who was now clad in a Glasgow Celtic cap - I learned was Jacintha.

 ‘Oh I’m in a terrible way with me nerves’ she was confessing to the man next her, and the entire surgery, on a particular morning when mine were jangling after a night’s indulgence in Johnny Walker. I remembered Jacintha.

‘What you think of it, Jacintha, I asked before studying it.

‘Oh I don’t like it Mr. Hennessy, God forgive me, but it looks like a tragedy to me, a tragedy, God save us.’

Murmurs suggesting agreement rippled round me.

Sensing I was up against a force predisposed to morbid inclinations   I studied the notice more carefully.                                                                             

FOR SALE: CHILD’S SHOES. NEVER WORN. it read.

‘Maybe we should ask Herbie’, I said.

‘An’ d’ye think he’s goin’ to tell us the truth an’ kill the sale of them’ Jacinta was having none of that. Go easy Hennessy I was thinking, this lady could throw a tantrum of consequences.

‘There’s certainly sense in your reasoning there, Jacintha’ I paused wondering where to take the argument next. She adjusted her green and white cap, raised her head and pursed her lips.

‘But ‘I continued, sensing   strong maternal instincts could prejudice the judgement of said ladies, ‘let’s look at what the actual notice says, let’s look at the wording of the document’. Many a court case had been won and lost on the creative interpretation of the text of a letter or will. I was thinking of a famous case won by Sean McBride SC. This case had to be fought too.            

‘We know what the words says, we’re not blind you know Mr Hennessey,’ Mary Murphy’s voice was shriller now. Some of the women moved back from me, and closer towards Mary, nodding and murmuring in support.  

I mulled over the text of the notice, silently, as I might over a complex legal document.                                                                                              

‘Ladies’, I argued, ‘there is absolutely nothing here to suggest a tragedy of any kind’.                                                                                                   

‘And what d’ye think happened the Godforsaken infant, you that has all the brains?’  A new contributor to the debate piped in.                                   

‘There’s no evidence of any such…’                                                    

‘Battered to death by some brute of a father, if you ask me,’ Mary said. Shuffles and ‘yeah yeahs,’raised the tempo further.                                                   

 ‘Or drowned in the bath,’ Jacintha said, ‘if ye ax me.’  

I glanced through the window, to the interior of the shop, past the site of the controversial notice. Herbie was preparing for the day’s business, tidying stuff from the counter, labelling prices on shoe boxes, arranging account ledgers. A book, with a picture of Ernest Hemingway, lay on the counter. Just at that moment he turned towards the window. His eyes met mine and for a split second I detected a smirk creasing his face. I spun round wanting to shout Eureka! The women’s tone had grown louder, their faces redder, some were stamping their feet, others were rubbing tears from their eyes. I would need to deliver my best court room performance if I were to win this case. Jacinta was pursing her lips again, glaring at me as if I were the brutal father guilty of an increasing catalogue of crimes against infants. I imagined her about to shriek

‘An now ye’er goin to sell the misfortunate’s shoes, ye monster!’  

‘Ladies’ I commanded, ‘please listen for one moment’. The silence surprised me, better get to the point quickly.’ I ask you, what is the manner of business conducted in this shop?

‘Well it’s not fish an chips is it’ Mary’s leer brought a laugh from the assembly.

‘Precisely. So is it to be expected that such an enterprise would be in the business of selling child’s shoes?                                                         

‘But they were never worn, answer me that, me man.’

I could feel the sun’s rays warm on my back.                                       

‘You are absolutely correct Jacintha. Now may I ask you a question, would you buy, from a reputable shoe shop, shoes that had already been worn - perhaps indeed in circumstances similar to those outlined by you - for your new baby?’                                                                                                           

‘Well, have it your way… maybe so…but there’s something not right…’    

I wanted to scream it’s a fucking shoes shop isn’t it, what do you expect them to sell, but held my composure. Gasps and nods in my direction told me what I wanted to hear. I tapped on the glass. Herbie looked up; I winked back to him.

And the O’Reilly case? He’s a Fish and Chip shop proprietor who’s been accused of the murder of his mother-in-law, with the aid of a deep-fat frier. Can’t wait to catch-up with it.   

*** 

BIO: Dr Arthur Broomfield is a poet, short story writer and Beckett scholar from Ballyfin, Laois. His has publications include five poetry collections, a study on the works of Samuel Beckett, and a novel, When the Dust Settles. He is SETU author of the month for his short story, Boyos. Arthur has completed two short story writing courses with Claire Keegan. He holds a Ph.D.  in English literature from Mary Immaculate College, University of Limerick.



The Boyos: Arthur Broomfield

Arthur Broomfield
Dr Arthur Broomfield is a poet, short story writer, essayist and Beckett scholar from County Laois, Ireland.


It was round three on a late October afternoon, the leaves on the row of beech trees beyond the Bloom pub were falling and drifting across the cobblestone courtyard, towards the in need of a cleaning plate glass window of the pub’s lounge bar. The pub stood a mile outside the cattle mart town of Dungrey in the Irish midlands. It was mart day. Johnny Grogan, well known to livestock farmers as a purveyor of substances beneficial to the well-being of beef cattle was driving to the Bloom bar to meet a colleague. He swung his buff Toyota Carina round the gable end of the pub and pulled in to the car park behind the stacks of crates and barrels that were assembled close to the whitewashed outdoor toilets. One other car was parked close to the back entrance to the bar. Johnny strolled into the lounge where Duncan, the barman of twenty odd years, was washing glasses and tidying up after the few who’d been in round lunchtime. 
‘Make me a couple of mugs of coffee Duncan, in your own time. A pal ‘ill be joining me presently’ Duncan nodded, left down the glass he was polishing and set about complying with the order. It was too early in the day for Johnny to start drinking; it was better to have the coffee in front of him when Murt arrived, as he’d assured Johnny he would, at a quarter past.
‘I hear those boyos are down in Jamesie Duffy’s,’ Duncan announced to the ethers in general .
The lounge door creaked open as Duncan was heading out with the coffee.
        ‘I’ve taken a chance on your poison, Murt?’ 
‘Are you off the Capuchino, Johnny’
‘It didn’t reach these parts yet. You never know what people might think if I was seen drinking it.’ 
‘I’ll stick with the coffee, rightly or wrongly, said Murt.’
 The bar was quiet but for the three of them. Murt had changed his boots and Mart garb in the truck, before he came in. At a fresh forty-two he could give Johnny a year or two.
 Duncan arrived with a plastic tray with two mugs of coffee, teaspoons, sachets of sugar in a bowl and two Heineken beermats, all squeezed into the available space the tray offered. He put the mats and the mugs on the table and left the rest on the tray that he pushed to a vacant spot within reach of the men.
‘I hear McHensey had a couple caught in The Meats yesterday,’ Johnny said.
‘Yeah, Limousines. It’s not getting easier, Johnny. They’ve got their spy in The Meats, that Monseigneur’s f###ing godson.’
‘They used to call the likes of him felon setters in Fenian times’, Johnny said.
‘Their sort is still here, Johnny.’
‘Any value today, Murt?’
‘Hard to know what’s value, with what’s going on.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I did get a bundle of poll Angus bullocks, ready for the shed. Molloy was eyeing them, but I got him to stand down for me.’
‘How did you pull that one Murt, that boy aint simple?’
‘Have you heard of this man Bob Haldeman, Johnny?’
‘Ha! So tell me, Murt.’
‘I found it beneficial, after an awkward situation in Barrow Meats last month, to employ the services of Molloy’s educated son Sylvester, the one who works in the Lab. The word is he’s a gambler.’
‘It cost you?’
‘Enough,Johnny. I had no choice. I think he must have used his own water, there’s not a clean beast going into a factory these days.’
Murt studied his coffee, swivelled the mug round on the Heineken mat. He paused, opened the paper corner of a sachet of sugar, carefully, poised it over his mug and watched the sugar slowly fall into the coffee, the fading October sun reflecting occasional glints as it caught crystals in descent.
‘It’s our life blood, Johnny… How is your boy getting on in college?’
‘Good, Paul’s a good worker, doing Ag Science. You know they stopped the grant; said we were above the limit.’
‘Bastards.’
‘So, do you think we should drive out, Murt and take a look?’
‘Do you reckon?’ Murt’s brow furrowed. ‘Hogan had it all. They’ve been there since round twelve, tearing the place apart. He’s a f###in’ windbag. Four cars of them, parked in Cabbage Lane, they walked up, caught Jamesie and the lads cold.’
‘Cabbage Lane, Murt!’
‘There’s decent men behind bars in Castlereagh, Johnny. For doing f### all bad. And a lot of good…a lot of good for themselves, anyway!’
‘God helps those who help themselves. We could drive by and get a look, Murt.’
‘That’d make us up.’
‘You’ve gone farther for less, Murt. We’re only going to take a look.’
Murt lifted his mug of cooling, untouched coffee off the beer mat, laid it down, stirred it a couple of times, raised it halfway to his lips and left it back down again.
‘I’m not so sure I want to see it. We’d be like them useless bystanders you’d see in pictures at the scene of an eviction. Anyway I have to get back to the Mart to sort out my cattle.’ 
‘It’ll only take twenty minutes, at the most and ‘I’ll drive out Murt, you can leave the truck here, we’ll be back in jig time.’
Johnny took a packet of Benson and Hedges and a lighter out of his pocket. 
‘I’ve got a gallon of petrol in the boot… just hang on till I settle for the coffee.’
 
Johnny headed towards the bar, walking like he was about to be awarded a medal at the school sports. Murt watched him through narrowing slits between his eyelids, then looked down at his still full cup of coffee. 
Duncan rooted among price lists and jars till he found a pen and paper. 
‘That’ll be two mugs of coffee, and it all comes to that.’Duncan thrust the bill towards Johnny who left a bundle of coins on the bar and turned to face Murt, but Murt was conspicuous by his absence.
    ‘Did he leave Duncan?
    ‘Headed out the back as soon as you turned to the bar.’
    ‘That’s the way to go Duncan.’
The next he saw of Murt was his shoes, toes pointing upwards, sticking out beneath the side of his truck.
‘What’s up Murt?’
‘Looks like the power shaft is f###ed. When I threw her into gear, not a budge. F### it anyway. Hey, would you drop me into Fred’s Motors, better get it right, anyway, whatever it is.’

The Martins

Arthur Broomfield
Dr Arthur Broomfield is a poet, short story writer, essayist and Beckett scholar from County Laois, Ireland.


He watched the car heading down the avenue. It picked up speed despite the occasional pothole as it drove between the two patches of lawn he’d promised her he’d keep mown but hadn’t. Her blue Ford Fiesta, crammed with Dunnes Stores travel bags, and cases inherited from her dowager Aunt Felicity, disappeared behind the overhanging Cypresses that gave shade on the rare days that promised a good summer. It nosed out between the Hawthorn hedge on the passenger side, its white blossoms now fading to pink, and the wire fence on the driver’s side, where he could see her head, rigid, faced ahead of her.  The fence, six strands of plain wire, he'd put up round the acre or so paddock to hold the Suffolk sheep in upwards of one failed venture into livestock farming, continued alongside the remaining hundred yards of avenue. Her car rose a trail of dust that clouded the low ridge of grass and clovers that separated the car tracks. He watched till it passed through the two ivy clad limestone pillars, reminders that had stood there for over a hundred years, and paused before turning left onto the narrow road, to disappear from his view.

He hadn’t waved towards the retreating car, just stood still, arms folded across his chest. Only his eyes wavered as they followed the movement of the Fiesta. Now he turned towards the hall door that she’d painted a shade of bottle green on Saint Patrick’s Day. He pulled a plastic armchair out to the sunlight from under the slated canopy where the House Martins had nested and reared three clutches last summer. Parents or young hadn’t returned.

He slumped into the chair; arms strewn along each sloping arm rest. A stand of seven Marine Pines, scattered along the bottom edge of the paddock, framed jagged scenes of the hazy Mullenagh hills : a patch of green fields, grass for silage, a field of  winter barley swaying to a dirge, a plantation of Sitka spruce, a farmhouse, that rose above the intervening  Moss bog and Ballinacrag village where the nosey Madge Muldoon would, by now, surely have been made aware of the packed Fiesta speeding past her grocery shop and sub post office.

A   warm breeze swayed the head of a lone strand of Cocksfoot that stood above the surrounding grass on the lawn beyond his outstretched feet. It nodded back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm, its moves mimicked by his upper body and head. He was faced towards the east, through the Pine stand towards Mullenagh. His eyes were glazing, slowly, becoming one with the ethereal haze on the distant hills.

It was the noisy chatter chatter that called him out of his trance. He blinked a few times, sat upright, raised his hands so his index fingers could rub his eyes. His head turned both ways a few times. The chatters grew louder. His hands gripped the arms of the chair.

‘Ah! you’ve come back to me.’  He rose slowly, eyes sparkling as he gazed at the two Martins perched on the bar beside their old nest; reconciled lovers in animated discussion on plans to reconstruct their old home.

Poetry: Arthur Broomfield

Arthur Broomfield
Dr Arthur Broomfield is a poet, short story writer, essayist and Beckett scholar from County Laois, Ireland.

The Fairy Rath

 

She told a Mosiaic story, of sorts,

the widow Wynne, to the ramblers,

that gathered round her hearth,

of a bush that beats a man

 caught out on his own, alone,

instead of one that burned ;

two tablets, it was said,

were set in slabs of stone,

as she spread blackberry jam

thick along the soda bread

and filled the pewter teapot,

left them by Nora Murphy’s

decent husband, Ned.

 

How her Paddy went and of his own accord,

though he knew the bean si curse

could light upon him,

to chop it down without a word,

the schioch tree on the Fairy Rath –

I knew he’d cleared the furze –

he’d need the land for barley in the spring,

with two more cows and calves to feed.

But did he think to mention that fairy bush to me !

 

The widow passed around

the plate of bread and jam,

and poured the mugs of tea.

 

He never should have touched it,

she went on, tears welling in her eyes,

and did he bring them with him,

his cannister of pills ?

The oul people all had warned him

the man that puts an axe again it,

the Maybush on the hill,

is sure to have bad luck.

And that’s the way I found him,

His poor heart not too good,

His diner frozen cold,

he beaten blue and black,

Not a Christian near him,

The low branch soaked in blood.

***

 

Hell hath Fury

It takes so many years to learn that one is dead.

TS Eliot

 

This place is all do, all say,

one-way train on a wet Sunday.

Eros Moon, after a silk tight,

 Lucifer waits, night, lies by.

.

Sun embroiders shrouds

for the early arrivals,

stirs potions through the mix

of christening robe squabbles,

holy wars fought with pebbles.

The mouse in the trap

fights for survival.

 

He’d raised the lid early,

As is his way, the sun in accord,

crawls from his hob-hot gurney,

snaps cadaver scenes for the record:

 

Polar fires that bleed to the beat

of a string quartet,

the mood music of Sahara floods.

belches of the fed,

the robin in his grave

that blesses the worms he eats,

are makings he files and saves,

a mummified menu of Calvary treats.

 

This is the halting hearth

of his buzzing bits and pieces

it’s where they fell to earth.

 

He takes the weight on his elbows

reads the chemtrail codes of Robin Hood’s arrow:

 

Hell is Vlad impaling, the age-long,

the sun at high noon. The all right, swing song.


April

Arthur Broomfield
Dr Arthur Broomfield is a poet, short story writer, essayist and Beckett scholar from County Laois, Ireland.

Paint smeared April parades
lilies, that brandish the blood
of the quick, pink viburnum;
magnolias, sepals stained, in retreat,
too late to flee the crematorium.

The yellow daffodil, standing
tall above the March grass,
sees through the bare hedge,
withers in haste.

This is the month
when the paedophile prowls
the school playground,
bags of bullseyes
bulging in his pockets.

The Count shuffles 
to the mouth of his cave,
sniffs the morning air,
doubts himself, eavesdrops
on the evensong.

Recoils to ponder
the promised land.

Author Journey: Arthur Broomfield in conversation with Zara Browne

Arthur Broomfield
Dr Arthur Broomfield is a poet, short story writer, essayist and Beckett scholar from County Laois, Ireland.
ZARA: When did you start on your writing journey?

AB: In my younger days I was secretary of a local Athletic club, the Ballyfin club. I always had a fascination with writing and language, so this gave me the opportunity to write club reports, send PR pieces to local newspapers etc

 
ZARA: Who inspired you to write? What was it about them that inspired your writings?

AB: My first experience of the magic of poetry came, not from school, but from listening to Dylan Thomas reading ‘Do not go Gentle into that Good Night’ on the old BBC Third Programme, the morning after President Kennedy was assassinated. That stayed with me ever since, but I did not think about writing poetry till ten or so years later when I wrote a couple of poems which are best forgotten. Around 1977 I heard Paul Durcan reading ‘Nessa’ on RTE’s Sunday Miscellany. That was another wow! moment. I think the effect of hearing beautiful poetry being read aloud by beautiful voices got to me in both cases.
 

Zara Browne
ZARA: Are there certain places you visit that help the energy behind your writings? If so, what is it about those places that are so influential?

AB: The place that inspires me most is the landscape around where I live, in Ballyfin, County Laois. I have written poems set there that have been driven by certain energy drawn from the place. It is more about the feelings I get when I am there than the actual landscape. People appear frequently in my poems, especially in Ireland Calling, my current collection. The characters I meet, the originality of their language and ideas, their ways of negotiating, and even their gentle roguery, inspire me too. What inspires me most is the will to be free. This is most obvious in poems like ‘We too have our Martyrs,’ a poem that recalls the Paris massacre, and some anti-IRA poems I have written but it drives most of my work in both the struggle for the liberation of language from fixed meaning and the fear of lapsing into a counter truth, what Jacques Derrida calls ‘negative theology.’ I do believe, to paraphrase Yeats, that the best poets quarrel with their preconceptions. So, I don't much go for identity poetry which accentuates the poet’s victimhood. Of course, this may be well justified, politically, and it is ‘all the rage’ these days, but I do not think it makes for good poetry

 

Zara: I have heard you say that writing is a craft as well as an art. Could you elaborate?

AB: In my case, a poem usually begins with a charge of energy that has, somewhere within it, an idea. It can torment and even frighten me for days or more. I suppose that is the art bit. Where does it come from, the Muse, the Gods? Eventually, I am forced to sit down with pen and paper and try to put this chaos into words which may be the craft part but is never all, or fully craft. The creative process is active, involved in the craft work e.g., in prompting new images, naming, ideas, and words themselves, in the ‘vision and revision ‘of the poem. Paul Durcan told me that sometimes the Gods will give you a finished poem, one you can write down immediately. If you do not, the Gods will not look kindly on you. It happened to me a few times [ that I wrote it]. Auden says a poem is never finished; it is ‘abandoned’! It is still a great feeling to finish a poem.

 

Zara: You often speak of form versus content. What is the distinction and why is form so important in poetry?

AB: This is a significant question which has been debated by scholars over the decades, notably by Paul de Man in The Resistance to Theory. I can only offer my simplified, and simplistic, understanding of the question. When we speak of content, we mean the message inherent in the poem, what the poem presumes to say e.g., an aspect of the state of the world, a viewpoint, or an ideological approach. The form would be how the poem is structured, how the language of the poem, its rhythm and rhyme scheme, choice, and arrangement of words, etc, appear on the page [or through a reading] Usually the form will enhance the content through language, the approach of the poem, and images that aspire to aesthetic beauty. In good poetry form will question and challenge the grammatical, the logic, intended in the message or content of the poem -  through a rhetorical question  - [as Yeats does in the final line of ‘Among School Children’]  - or powerful image that will raise it to an imaginative reading above what is grammatically understood, that will infuse the work with magic that invokes feelings that cannot be satisfactorily said through logically accurate language. Ezra Pound argues that the presence of the concrete image ‘gives that sense of sudden liberation; that sense of freedom from time limits and space limits; that sense of sudden growth, which we experience in the presence of the greatest works of art.’  The challenge of the grammatical reading of the poem will still be there, to be read as such, but, if it is good, the image will raise and liberate the poem from the influence of logic. Contemplation of the arts will free us from the pain of becoming involved in the affairs of the world. Arthur Schopenhauer says much that is interesting about this. If, when we are writing poetry, we can view the miseries of the world from a distance, so to speak, and be above the conflicts, see them, without judgement, as a lot of misguided humanity and locate ourselves at a remove from ‘the warring mice in the morgue’ we will, even if momentarily, experience that sense of ‘sudden liberation’ and, hopefully, work that approach into our poetry. Classical music may be the purest form of art as its form prevails over the content. When we talk of poetry aspiring to music, we mean in this, not necessarily the musical, sense.

 

ZARA: In your opinion what qualities are in Samuel Beckett’s works that sets his writings apart from others?

AB:  Beckett is so far ahead of his time that, even now, his works are not fully understood. Essentially, Beckett sees existence as a transitory affliction, where the corporeal is mired in extremes of misery. Often, wrongly, seen as pessimistic, Beckett’s greatest works, his novels Worstward Ho! and How It Is, and his dramas, especially Waiting for Godot and Endgame, see the notion of misery as a passing state that must be endured before the body is freed to enjoy the infinite, the permanence of pure, empty, language, that is language as a pure form that loses all association to content, or representation of transitory, material things whose existence cannot be definitively proved.  Worstward Ho! brings the reader on an exhaustive argument to prove the infinity of pure language and its dislocation from the material. Beckett is both an artist and a philosopher whose thinking on language exceeds anything that has been written heretofore. I have written a study of his works, The Empty Too: language and philosophy in the works of Samuel Beckett, Cambridge Scholars Publishing. 2014, in which these questions are discussed.



ZARA: What advice would you give to young writers starting?

AB: ‘To thine own self be true.’ You are writing because you want to put into your words some moment or event that has touched you. This moment is yours alone, only you can translate it into the words that, for you, fit. So, essentially, writing poetry is a self-centred, though not a selfish, act. You will not write for others, for an audience, or acclaim. You will dislocate yourself from your ego. Of course, it will be nice to get your work published or to meet people who will say how they like your work, this is natural, humans are social beings. Read the good poets, the ones that you like, not all of them, or even all of their poems, but read them well, over, and over, to enjoy and to see how they did it. Try to find your voice, which is a form of words with which you are comfortable, that come naturally to you. Remember Wordsworth ‘A good poem is a man [sic] speaking to men.’ Never be afraid to be different.

 
(Dr Arthur Broomfield is a poet, short story writer, essayist and Beckett scholar from County Laois, Ireland.)

Poetry: Arthur Broomfield

Arthur Broomfield
Dr Arthur Broomfield is a poet, short story writer, essayist and Beckett scholar from County Laois, Ireland.

One of the two things I think I know about Quantum Physics
 
Does It, that’s beyond the ignorant dead,
scheme to subdue the dun earth, its stock,
with its tapes and flags,
its clock’s invasive tock?

Is It beyond the fishnet moon,
the sin stiff sun, the thorns
that pierce the morning’s skin
and draw blood from the new-born,

beyond the stench of cess,
the convenience funeral home;
the skystars that pass
in the first rays of the soul
to the everywhere tomb?

Beyond the fear of toads, of frogs,
of girls dancing at crossroads,
is It aloof to the warring mice in the morgue?
***


Night…

and The Count prowls
in the mirror of the lover’s moon.
Blood sours in the Arctic urn,
spills to the strokes of snow 
falling on midnight leaves.

This is the cavern club
of the Uilleann piper,
here a dirge does salve
to the singing dead.

Yet, in late September,
when the sun is buried
behind the humps of the Slieve Blooms,
and the risen frost twinkles,
he plays the Moonlight Sonata,
gazes to Venus and Orion’s Belt.
***

Bio: Dr Arthur Broomfield is a poet, short story writer, and Beckett Scholar from County Laois, Ireland. He is the current Poetry Ireland Poet Laureate for Mountmellick. His works have been published in Irish, UK, Indian, Argentinian and US journals. His recent best-selling collection, Ireland Calling, is available from the author.

Essentials of Living: Arthur Broomfield (Fiction)

Arthur Broomfield
Dr Arthur Broomfield is a poet, short story writer, lessayist and Beckett scholar from County Laois, Ireland.

IS THE POPE A PROTESTANT?

Lucky pulled the burka awkwardly over his Manchester United shirt and Levi jeans. Even with a coarse slit cut up the back it was uncomfortable. He was a good stone overweight and even if it was the largest size he could get from those Pakistani women in Mary Street, who looked at him curiously, it was still designed for a woman’s body. It pinched him in some places and hung too loosely in others. To make things worse it was a sweaty, clammy August day. Even the leaves on the overhanging sycamore tree seemed to droop, motionless. Lucky floundered around the cramped tent as he continued to negotiate with the burka. Dying it hadn’t been such a good idea. I should have left it black, he thought. Litres of bleach had failed to transform it to the stunning white he’d imagined, leaving it, instead, a morass of undefined shades of grey. “It’s necessary,” he’d explained to his friend Timmy, “it gives me presence. All mystics wear Eastern garb.” Nearly ready now, he consoled himself, as he pulled the hood of the burka over his face, the top also slit to allow the visor to coincide with his eyes. He zipped the holdall carefully. No nosey victim could be let spot the litre bottle of Paddy whiskey and few plastic cups that remained there.
“Spiritual offering to the celestial spirits, Timmy, for their blessed intercession, once the virtuous deeds of the day have been sanctified”.   
Nothing to do now but light the incense.
********************************
 “I never heard of anything so corny,” Timmy remonstrated, when Lucky put the plan to him, after cricket training. “What if someone recognises me?”
“They won’t, they’re all farmers … move in different circles. I’ll collect you in the van that morning. You just play your part – okay,” said Lucky.
“You must think the people are pure eejits.”
***********************
 
“Father Looney is coming down on you today.” Billy O’Dunn rushed from mass with the news. 
“You’ve disturbed me, I was meditating. Can’t you respect the ambiance of the state of Nirvana.” 
Lucky was squatted in the lotus position on the floor of the small room that normally served as a kitchen-cum-living room. A statue of a plastic, overweight Buddha rested on a cardboard box that corresponded with his eye-line. The smell of burning incense and the melodious sound of pan pipes caught Billy by surprise.
“What’s all this jiggery pokery about?
“As you do ask, I’m invoking the Masters of the Divine spirits of the universe. I believe they will guide me in today’s sacred work.”
“Oh yeah? It’ll be sacred countin’ the cash – if you get any. Anyway, you’d better wake up from your trance, this boyo could put a stop to your gallop today.”
Billy flung an opened copy of the ‘Ballylanders Observer’ on a wicker table close to Lucky. It landed on a copy of   Spirituality for Beginners: The Akashic and me in a rural setting by Dr Paddy Moloney.
“That’s him, the Munster prop in the choker.” Billy gestured towards a photo on page three of the newspaper.
“Oh! Well now I’ll know him from my other priestly victims, should he decide to pay a courtesy call,” Lucky said.
“That he’ll do an’ all. He warned us all at mass,’ ‘don’t go near him.  How can a man who never darkened the door of a church be a faith healer,’ he said”?
“Well, they were quick enough to take my money for the ad in the parish notes,” Lucky said. 
***********

Lucky’s temple was a leftover from a previous life, burger vendor at the Dylan concert at Slane It was big enough to hold a small table and two chairs and high enough for a man of average height to stand. Visitors were trickling into the Ballylanders and District Annual Agricultural Show and Field Day. A few curious farmers, on their way in, studied a stencilled poster in bold red and black paint pinned to Maharaj Mustafa’s Healing Temple. It boasted of an impressive list of cures performed by the Maharaj, that ranged from St Vitus Dance to Alice in Wonderland Syndrome and bowel disorders of many descriptions. 
Parked close to the entrance and first in the queue, Timmy was beginning to sweat up in the wheelchair. Next to him lay a weak-voiced little lady in her late forties, also in a wheelchair. She was being cared for by a youth of about eighteen. A son thought Timmy.
*******************************************

“You’re not much like your picture,” Lucky said.
“You’re a picture yourself. Your poor mother must be revolving in her grave,” Father Looney said. “Take off that scarecrow’s suit and let the people see who you are.”
“I will when you do likewise with that Roman collar,” Lucky said. 
Father Looney, all six foot and sixteen stone of him, lips pursed, eyes fired like an Exorcist on a mission that would end in ridding the community of a demon of indescribable horror, had stormed into Lucky’s makeshift temple, testing the fabric of the entrance flap in a charge that got its inspiration from a Young Munster prop barging into a ruck.
 “Fifty years ago, we’d have had you burnt at the stake. Faith healer my incense.”
“Sit down and cool off,” Lucky said, as he hurriedly closed the entrance.





Billy O’Dunn could sense trouble. The din continued from inside the temple. If it didn’t stop Lucky would lose his clients.

“There’s only one thing for it Billy, wheel me in there now,” Timmy said.


Billy opened the entrance flap of the temple and secured it back to make room for the wheelchair. Timmy had a direct view of the inside. Now sitting down, the black backed priest, white collar clearly visible, was leaning forward. His elbows rested on the table; hands clasped in front of his face. Across the table stood the burka clad Lucky, his bleached hair sticking out in all directions from the slit in the crown of the garment. Tall anyway, now he struck a rigidly erect pose that levelled out the humps and hollows of the burka.
“My God, he’s healing a priest,” whispered the little lady in the wheelchair.
Lucky beckoned to Billy to push in Timmy through the open entrance. “now You may leave carer” he said, “and close the temple entrance please.”
“This I insist on witnessing,” said Father Looney.
“Indeed, you are most welcome Father,” said Lucky, “it’s inspiring to have a man of God witness the work of the Gods. We are united in faith.”

Lucky adjusted the wheelchair so that Timmy had his back to Fr. Looney. He stood about a yard back, his arms stretched towards both men, eyes closed tight behind the visor of his burka.
“I will now summon the energies of the universe. My body will act as a medium. You must stay perfectly still.”
The summoning consisted of an amalgam of a synopsis of the Hari Krishna chant
Hara Krishna
Hara Krishna
Krishna Krishna
Hara Hara
that he’d picked up on a research visit to the Hara Krishna temple on St Stephen’s Green,
a woo hu hu, 
woo hu hu
woo hu hu 
interpretation of the Clare shout and a couple of blasts of the Ullaloo, an eighteenth-century Irish funeral song. The rendition was followed by a minute of calm during which Lucky stood motionless, arms still outstretched, head now thrown back, apparently in deep communication with the energies of the universe.
“My child … my child … arise …. Arise …. ARISE.”
The whole rehearsed ceremony was worked through till Billy was called in. After a donation of fifty euros was handed over – acknowledged by Father Looney’s head nodding in unison with the slow upward turn of his pursed lips – a shaky Timmy nervously pushed his wheelchair ahead of him out through the entrance, on to the show and beyond. Billy walked in close attendance gently asking people to “stand aside, please.”
“I don’t know who that fella is, but I know there’s nothing O’Dunn wouldn’t do for a tenner,” said Fr. Looney. “We’ll see how well you’ll work with Madge Brennan.”

Everyone in the parish felt for Madge – struck down by a mysterious virus shortly after her Paddy got himself wrapped around the power-take-off of his tractor. Her suffering did indeed seem a blessing to her. She had seen her two eldest children, Anne Marie and Paul, graduate in medicine and physiotherapy from University College Dublin. The four younger boys were noted for being “a credit to her” and were expected to do equally well when their time came.
“God bless you father, I didn’t expect to see you here,” Madge said.
“Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth,” Lucky sang out rather hurriedly, hoping to forestall any intervention from the priest that might hinder the healing process. Instead, Father Looney pulled his chair to the side of the temple – to make space for the widow – where his big frame crouched, to accommodate his back to the slope of the canvas. His eyes sparkled. His face shone with the glow of a man watching his first pint of Guinness filling on a thirsty July day. 

**********

“It’s time we talked,” said Father Looney.
Billy O’Dunn stuck his head into the temple.
“There’s a queue a mile long here to see you,” he said. “What'll I tell them? “
“Tell them the healing is over for today. Tell them …. tell them my energies have dissipated,” 
“Well at least the shoutin’ has eased off,” said Billy. Now the two men were sitting on either side of the table, facing each other, the bottle of Paddy and two plastic cups between them. Lucky had taken off the burka; his pale face was in contrast with the red of the Man. U. jersey. Father Looney’s black jacket hung from his chair; his collar opened at the back; its mark still imprinted on his neck.
“And fasten the entrance on your way out – here’s something for you,” Lucky said.


The two men sat in silence, gazing into their whiskey.
 Lucky broke the hush,
 “It’s not what I did to her, it’s what she did to me,” said Lucky.
“Timmy didn’t fool you. Yeah, he was just a ready-up to lure the punters. But Christ, when she dragged herself up out of the wheelchair and tottered towards me, I could see the Resurrection in her eyes.”
Lucky swilled the whiskey round his plastic cup and looked Father Looney straight in the eyes.
“This wasn’t meant to happen   I never had a victim in a wheelchair, just gout and piles … that sort of stuff.
“What’s going on Father, you’re the real man of God,”
 Father Looney raised his plastic cup to his lips, paused as if he was going to say something, checked himself, left it down, stared into it. After another pause he raised his head and looked straight back into Lucky’s eyes. 
“I’m no more a man of God than you are Lucky. I gave it up years ago. But I can’t say it. If I’m like that – a country priest – then…then is the Pope a Protestant?
  Father Looney paused again, took a sip of whiskey.
“You tell me,” said Lucky.
  “We give them what they want because … because … that’s how we are. Repentance … forgiveness … the body and blood … the afterlife, nothing that can be proved, don’t you see? Then you come along and put it all to the test. You put it up to belief itself. That’s why the Church doesn’t want your sort around the place. But look what happens!
“You and your damn wallalooing …  skip to the loo. My ...my. …   Madge Brennan’s gone home, thanking God and …. and the universe. Where do we go now?”

Lucky had sat with his head buried in his hands through the priest’s agonising. Occasionally he’d pull his hair, or tear his scalp, or raise his head to gaze into some vague space.  He reached for his whiskey.
“An hour ago, I believed in nothing only money. I couldn’t take her money… I couldn’t take it.”
Lucky took another sip.
“Can’t you see it now!” Father Looney’s big fist came down hard on the table.
“It’s us that’s lost our beliefs. She’s walked out of this … this … temple… no different than when she was pushed in. We’re the ones who’ve changed … it’s changed us … she’s changed us.”
“Yea” said Lucky. “It’s … it’s like …. like we told her a corny story and she believed it…only the story has come true...! It worked for her not because it’s true but because she believed.”
Lucky ran his hands through his peroxide locks. 
The priest took another sip, straightened himself and gazed somewhere into the distance.
“I don’t know what to think, I don’t know what to say,” he said. “She’s cured, that we can see – if seeing is believing.” “All I can say is,” he said “that I don’t now believe that I don’t now believe”.
Lucky looked at the nearly full whiskey bottle and the two cups.
“I think it’s time to finish the whiskey,” he said.

Outside the temple a pleasant breeze had cleared the muggy conditions. The leaves on the sycamore tree were lively now, rustling in the breeze. Bees hummed, adding to the music. Bees and leaves in harmony. And, for those who looked through the green leaves, the sky beyond was blue and deep.

Poetry: Arthur Broomfield

Dr Arthur Broomfield is a poet, short story writer, lessayist and Beckett scholar from County Laois, Ireland.


The Poet Talks to Himself

Now you, who once spoke with the tongues of angels
and of men, will accompany the lyrics of my invention.
You, the poethead I ripped from its body in the cemetery
of Saint Peter’s church roundabout midnight
when the rats and dogs got their inspiration from
a wicker coffin, the disturbed worms 
of the Lucifer landscape; an ode to the clich├й
the perfect setting. Steeped in saltpetre,
sandpapered to the crow’s feet, eyes in a 
Chef mixed pickles glass jar, tongue fed to the cat,
hungry for the caviar and dog biscuits of
King Midas nights out in the Hogwash hotel,
your gaze glistens from the reflected glory of my marble fireplace,
you, the louse powder to thoughtful Plato, scratching his chin,
he’s heard the news from elsewhere, In black and grey
 James Dean struggling with the to be of Hamlet. They might
have things to say about sophistry and Shakespeare.
I gaze at you, Raphael of the phoney psalm
and dance in time to the cliffs of Moher.
*** 


Day Vision

A cask painted fog
clear to the Cyclop eye.
Rectangle, vertical to 
the Cirrostratus’ tibia. 
 
The dirge from the alto sax
draws a psychedelic dance
from the quartz star,
 
endures the pained sun
the moon shroud,
the coming home of the corpse.

Reading Samuel Beckett

(April 13, 1906 - December 22, 1989)
Arthur Broomfield
Samuel Beckett is one of a precious few who have   revolutionized the approach to writing. He shares a special place in the incremental development of the process    with Homer, the Greek playwrights, Shakespeare and very few others. Homer, where it all began, from a western perspective at least, with the epic poems that tell the great stories of ancient Greece; the Greek playwrights who dramatize suffering, and Shakespeare who does all this and everything else through unsurpassed language. Beckett earns his place in this pantheon by challenging what we admire most in the work of his predecessors. He puts an end to the narrative; for Beckett the story cannot be told. Suffering is the human condition, so cannot be in conflict with an opposite and is therefore not dramatized in, for example, Waiting for Godot. Where Shakespeare gives us thousands of new words to make sense of our perceptions  Beckett goes back into commonplace language and argues that perceptions cannot be accurately represented in language. For Beckett it is a na├пve notion to think that a thing can be conclusively defined in stable language.

Beckett combines a philosophical curiosity, rooted in the question ‘what is it to be,’ with a cryptic style and syntax that asks the reader to look at, not through or beyond, so-called everyday language? In Beckett’s writing language is arranged so that it draws attention to itself, not to the thing, or concept, it may be thought, or believed, to describe. By so doing his art form and his philosophical approach become the one.  His philosophical belief is that language is reality, or the real, and his art form justifies his belief  by showing that we cannot get out of language.That is, language that is divorced from meaning and knowing, and from all association with the senses- empty language that has been freed of the obligation to describe what the senses perceive, and relieved of the task of justifying the supposed link between the two. To fully appreciate Beckett’s works we need to understand his thinking on philosophy and language, and we can best do this through the evidence he provides in his artistic work, especially that from The Unnamable on.

The first thing that should be stressed is that Beckett is a believer. He believes in a Platonic type reality; that reality for him is pure language, it is not in a particular location for that would suggest dependency on time and space but is. Language is all being, as he says throughout his works, and all being is language. All else, the body, what the senses perceive in this dimension, is doubted  and is classified as non-being   His approach to the philosophical and linguistic questions that exercise him is summed up in the title I have chosen for my book. The Empty Too : language and philosophy in the works of Samuel Beckett (too as in also) is a complete sentence from Worstward  Ho,that like many other sentences running through Beckett’s works seems not to make sense on early readings. However when we realize that he is speaking about the  definite article, the word ‘the’, not an assumed thing or referent beyond that word, we  will have reached an entry point into understanding Beckett’s thinking. In this sentence ‘the’ is torn from the assumption that it represents some thing .It is freed and  can stand alone as a word unsupported, severed from the backing of a presumed chair, table, or whatever. There it stands, a word that will not go away, what Beckett calls an empty word, that only effort and ideology, or misreading, will link  to any thing, or concept, but a word, nevertheless. The definite article can only be definite insofar as it refers to itself. ‘The’ is the word the, or to be accurate, the representation in writing or speech of the word that exists beyond speech and writing.  Beckett doubts, rather than dismisses the possible existence of perceived things; that doubt is in itself enough to qualify them for classification as non-being.

When we study Beckett’s works we need to remember that he is a creative artist who locates his creation in a fictional world that is a remove away from the familiar world, as we know it,  it is a world that has been created to accommodate his artistic vision. We need to avoid the trap of assuming that his works are located in the world we believe to be reality. To approach his works thus will persuade us to accommodate them to an interpretation of reality rejected in Beckett’s texts. It will lead us to look for a relationship between language and things, and for meaning, where the overwhelming evidence in his texts argues for the undoing of meaning, and for the freeing of language from the referent. In marked contrast to our perceived world Beckett’s fictional world   creates the space to accommodate the cross-fertilisation of his art and his philosophy; it can be  seen to good effect  in his great dramatic work, Waiting for Godot,

The notion that what we perceive through our senses cannot be proved, either to exist or not, has plenty of precedents in philosophy. Reality, to Plato, or the same, as he calls it, is beyond perception, it ‘cannot be perceived through the senses at all’. That which can be perceived, according to Plato, ‘is grasped by opinion, it comes to be and passes away but never really is’ just like the fleeting perceptions we all experience, that differ from moment to moment, and from person to person .Descartes doubted the existence of everything he perceived except the one thing that assured him that he did exist, namely his ability to think. ‘I think therefore I am’ as the cogito is loosely translated, or because I am aware that I can think I know that I exist. The tradition of  Western philosophy that goes back to Plato argues that there is an elsewhere, an other to our existence, an unknowable world as Kant puts it. Interest in the nature of language, the other vital element to Beckett’s project, intensified through the twentieth century through the thinking of Ferdinand de Saussure who argued, convincingly, that the sign is arbitrary, in other words that the link between the thing we see and the words that describe it is no more than a convention agreed by us. We agree that words mean, or re-present, things and concepts so that we can exist within a community where we strive to make sense of the world around us, and where we can communicate with others. The necessities of life, the stresses of day to day living and so on, prevent us from thinking seriously about the miseries of our so called reality, content as we are to bask in the successes of our favourite football team, or to dream of winning the lotto.

   Beckett contests every assumption that has been made about the presumed reality of   our being here in the familiar world. For him this is not reality, but non-being, as he describes the world of perception in the screenplay of Film. Through his works, and this can be clearly seen in Waiting for Godot, every perceived thing and every  invented concept is stripped of proof of existence and can never go beyond the state of being doubted. In Waiting for Godot  time, space, the tree, character, Lucky’s  garbled  allusions to knowledge, because they are seen, heard or described by the functions and senses of the body, which is itself doubted, exist only in a state of doubt. Reality, or being, is, like Descartes ability to think, the core of our existence.  But for Beckett reality is pure language that is beyond thinking and meaning, and beyond the functions of the body, all of which belong to the world of perceptions. We cannot experience pure language  in this dimension .The closest we can get to it is through ‘going on’ to empty language which  is as far as the limitations of the body will allow. He surpasses the thinking of Saussure by arguing that language can be shown to exist when that which it purports to represent remains in doubt. He    insists, throughout his significant works, that when the perceived world inevitably collapses into the void, language will continue to exist.

 All literature begins with a question, according to Maurice Blanchot, and the question that  haunts Beckett’s works is ‘If language is the real how can it be proved to be so if the existence of that which tries to prove it, the body and its senses , cannot  be conclusively proved ?’ Beckett’s way of dealing with this insoluble problem is to establish the superiority of language over that which we perceive. He does this through the remorseless probing and   stripping of the thing   to which the word relates, until we are only sure of the word’s existence, it is in a superior, but not absolutist position to that to which it refers. The existence of the perceived, or the referent, can never be conclusively proven and must remain doubted, yet because it cannot be dismissed altogether it impedes the progression of the empty word to pure language, to what Hamm and Clov  call  ‘the life to come’ in Endgame  . So understanding this relationship between language and what we perceive is the key that will unlock the mysteries that are buried in the complexities of Beckett’s texts.

 This question, of the relationship between language and perception dominates The Unnamable, which is his magnum opus; it is the work in which his groundbreaking works originate. Serious students of Beckett’s works should begin by reading The Unnamable and leave his earlier works aside. It is the great anti- narrative, the book that cannot tell the story because, as it proves, we cannot get out of, or go beyond language to, talk about the always doubted things of the familiar world, which may disappoint those who continue to enjoy the great novels. After one hundred and twenty five pages of what can be trying prose the narrator admits that he has only got to the door that opens on his story, and even then would be surprised if it is a door; ‘what door,’ he asks, and if   it exists will it  open ? ‘They have carried me to the threshold of my story, before the door that opens on my own story, that would surprise me, if it opens.’ The prose however is only trying if the reader expects to hear a story. The Unmamable, as its title implies, challenges the notion that we can name. It suggests that the elements that form the basis of a story- location in time and space, and characterisation- relate to unstable perceptions outside of language that cannot be definitively described or named. To attempt to name   is an error in how we understand the world. If it is non-being then it is futile to explore it in any great detail. As he says in Texts for Nothing, ‘I’ll describe the place, that’s unimportant’. To name is to misunderstand the world, but more importantly for Beckett, it is to violate language, it is to limit words to particular meanings and by so doing  to question the supremacy that language holds over perceptions. Words for Beckett aspire to emptiness and freedom. The mistake we make when reading Beckett’s works is to look for meaning beyond the language where in fact the texts relate to language, they are language speaking to and about language. As he proclaims in The Unnamable ‘I shall have to speak of things of which I cannot speak,’ if he is to tell the story, which of course he cannot.

The fictional world   established by Beckett is best seen in Waiting for Godot.  Throughout his texts Beckett bemoans the fact that language is tormented and frustrated by its annoying association to perceived things.  The perceived world is made material in Godot; it is shown to be a place in terminal decline where the uncertainty of time and place is stressed. It may be Saturday, or Sunday, or Monday or Friday. Estragon spent the night in a ditch ‘over there’; the tree may be a tree or a shrub, or a bush. It is a world where nothing is known and there is nothing to be done. Food and shelter are close to exhaustion; the two principle characters, Vladimir and Estragon, spend their time trying to pass the time, and survive on raw turnips and the occasional dirty carrot. It all makes for a very miserable place indeed and confirms, if seen in isolation, the view that Beckett’s texts are depressing and offer no hope, that existence is an unmitigated disaster from which there is no escape .

There are no actual women in Godot. The only woman mentioned in the play is a Mrs Gozzo who had capitulated to the discomfort of the sexually transmitted disease, the clap, which may have rendered her unfit to procreate. Vladimir must endure the hurt of his erection, the little thing that counts, in a world conspicuous by the absence of the female presence.

     However the perceived world is not seen in isolation in Godot The hope shared by Vladimir and Estragon is that it, which includes the body, will end, that non-being will disappear into the void, thus freeing language to be ‘all’ being, the uncontaminated real, the messianic, eternal life to come.

 Great artists strive to present the unpresentable; as Miles Davis said, ‘Don’t play what’s there, play what’s not there’. The unpresentable,   to Beckett is pure language; it exists beyond the doubted experiences of the ephemeral illusions of the familiar world.  Yet, like the Kerry woman and the fairies it is there all the same. Beckett’s project hunts down, and damns with doubt every aspect of the perceived world till we are left only with that which bears the possibility of being the real, empty language that can speak of itself to itself. However, even empty language is presentable, through articulation and inscription and is thus contaminated by association with the senses and mechanics of the body. Beckett brings us to the outer limits of the understanding of our existence and compels us to ask what do we know of it, of existence? What is illusion and what is real? He believes in the life to come, but not in a religious sense. His rigorous logic identifies all that can be doubted; all the illusions of the world of non-being are excluded   from being the real. Like Plato’s opinion, they come in and out of view but never really are. They are presentable only with the complicity of the senses .As he says, cryptically, in Worstward Ho ‘Say a body. Where none’.

  However, this does not at all   leave us with the nihilistic destruction of every ‘thing’ as has often been claimed. The existence of things, of which Beckett cannot speak,    is not part of    reality and is consigned to the void of non-being, but is never dismissed. What remains, even in the familiar world of our existence, is language, emptied indeed of association to things, and because of the break in that link magnificently liberating in its own right, as its   existence is proved beyond doubt. Beckett establishes the primacy of language over perceptions through his texts but he cannot present ‘the life to come’. However, the logic of his project in which he proceeds through   ‘affirmation and negation invalidated as uttered,’    leads us, unerringly, to the truth that lies beyond the text, that ‘the last words, the true words’, that is, pure uncontaminated, unpresentable language, is the real.

This is the reality towards which Vladimir and Estragon agree to go in the   often poorly understood and misrepresented closing lines of Godot.

Blanchot has asked ‘who is speaking in the books of Samuel Beckett?’ Who or what do the two characters from Godot represent; for certain they are not tramps as has been said too often, for nowhere in the text are they said to be tramps. Vladimir’s insistence ‘we are not beggars’ is as close as it gets to broaching the term.  Far from being tramps in the conventional sense, they are more likely to be philosophers who have reached an awareness of the truth of reality. The last spoken line of Godot is ‘Yes, Let’s go,’ but the stage direction tells us [They do not move]. It can be understood, reading these lines, why some critics have called Godot theatre of the absurd. But this is not so, the logic that drives Beckett’s works does not desert him here.  The passage is not about bodies   going or moving the speakers are not speaking for or about the body, but is language itself speaking for and about itself.  The actual bodies are about to disintegrate as the illusion of familiar reality itself dissolves into the void. The who which is speaking here is the disembodying voice that is language, preparing to take its place as the life to come, as the last true words, the real.

It has been said that Godot is a play in which nothing happens, twice. In fact a lot happens in the drama, but it happens to and within language, not as conflict between characters, and it happens in the finely tuned changes to the language of Act 1 that are to be seen in Act 2    As with all of Beckett’s significant works the primacy of language over the familiar world of perceptions is stressed. Mere humanity is reduced, if not denigrated. The tyrannical Pozzo is ‘all humanity’; when Vladimir says ‘we are men’ (in reply to Pozzo)   can we take Estragon’s response ‘Sweet mother earth!’ as a challenge to  that appalling claim, because it is followed by an exclamation mark ?  Pozzo, on the other hand detects the possibility of other than merely human elements in Vladimir and Estragon when he observes, ‘You are human beings, nonetheless…as far as one can see’.  And of course these and other instances support the view held by some that Beckett’s plays are funny, even comic. One would need to be possessed by the zeal of my Puritan ancestors not to be able to laugh at some of the lines from Beckett’s drama. They are funny and they do make for good theatre, but beneath all of them lies a serious philosophical point. To treat them as humour, merely, by not going on into the language, is to miss the point in Beckett’s works.

In Godot the changes that take place in Act Two from Act One are subtle fine tunings of language. However, they are profound and because of their subtlety and their brevity they provide an accessible entry point through which to understand Beckett’s works. Possibly the most interesting example of   these changes are the dialogues between Vladimir and the boy. Both of them appear to share some common ground. Vladimir remarks, ‘You’re as bad as myself’, in Act One. Vladimir is anxious to know if the boy has seen ‘us’. ’You did see us, didn’t you?’ It is not at all to be assumed that the ‘us’ is himself and Estragon because the lengthy exchanges between boy and Vladimir takes place in the absence of Estragon, who has limped  off centre stage to remove his boots. So who are the ‘us’ that boy agrees he has seen? If we continue to read Beckett’s works through the logic of his philosophical approach, i.e. that language is the real but is haunted by that which persists in attaching   to it in the familiar world, the senses, the body, the belief that what is perceived exists, and so on, we could read the ‘us,’ to whom Vladimir refers, as the duality of Vladimir’s perceived body on the one hand, and the real, language itself on the other. In Act one boy tells Vladimir that he did see ‘us.’ ‘Yes sir’, he answers, before he runs off to report to Godot.

The changes that take place in Act Two seem to be no more than subtle tinkering s with language, and more often than not escape analysis, which is a pity because they encapsulate the heart of Beckett’s project. Where, in Act One , Vladimir seems to admit to an equality  in the   status of  language and the body, through the suggestion of equality in the duality of  his ‘us’, in  Act Two we see that the balance of probability has significantly shifted in favour of the superiority of  language. Vladimir asks the boy ‘Did you meet anyone. Two other … [He hesitates]…men? ’ Boy should have met the departing   Pozzo and Lucky but he stresses ‘I didn’t see anyone, sir. ’ Vladimir is reassured that boy is close to his level of consciousness, that  he can see beyond the world of the body, of a mere one; that he can understand the possibility of the existence of something other than the body even if he cannot ‘see’ it.  Pure language is inaccessible because it lies beyond the experiences of the familiar world; it belongs to Hamm’s life to come. Awareness of this reality comes through the startling realisation that language that is stripped of meaning, and that rejects claims to know, still exists, what we call empty language, the empty language of  the definite article   that dare not say ‘the’ when referring to anything outside of language.  Vladimir and Boy aspire to this elevated level of consciousness. Boy   therefore does not see any ‘one’ being; ‘I didn’t see anyone’. He doesn’t deny that he has seen men, for ‘men’ to Boy  can now suggest a confusion of more than one element , a view that is enforced by Vladimir’s instruction a few lines down,     ‘Tell him…tell him you saw me and that…’ For Vladimir, though, there is a clear distinction between ‘me’ and ‘that.’  ‘Me’ is the one that boy could not see, it is the possibility of pure language that is superior to the body. Vladimir sees what is represented by ‘‘that’, as the body, it has been forced out to a subordinate role.  The reader can sense the contempt in Vladimir’s voice, though the significance of the scene is not stressed in some    staged performances of the drama.  Vladimir, hoping that boy has reached his elevated level of consciousness, insists on demanding of boy ‘You’re sure you saw me’; ‘me’ here being language in a distinctly recognizable state of superiority to   and separation from the body. But boy hasn’t reached that level;  yes he does see the ‘us’ of  Act One, the body and language cohabitating within a parity of esteem arrangement, but has not  risen to Vladimir’s level where the distinction  of the ‘me’ from the ‘that’ is possible, so he cannot respond to Vladimir’s cry for recognition.

The exchanges between Vladimir and Boy may be the defining moments of Godot. The passage in Act Two is the moment where Beckett, through Vladimir, affirms the primacy of language over the perceived. Assured that language is reality Vladimir has no option but, with Estragon, to commit to becoming language, to go on from the disintegrating familiar world and leave there the baggage of the body.

It is to an awareness of this level of language and being that the narrating voice    in Worstward Ho draws the reader. Allusions to the existential world are mentioned, only to be consigned to the void, in this his most complex, yet most fascinating and most intense exposition of the seamless bond that links his philosophy to his understanding of language. Worstward Ho, can be described as the book of on. It begins and ends with the word on. The journey between the two ‘ons’ that begin and end Worstward Ho is a process where every assumption of meaning in the key words used by Beckett is challenged –and almost every word is a key word-and where every presupposition of what it is to be is consigned to the void, till we are left with the only possible answer to the question posed. The reader’s difficulties in interpreting  the text could be eased  by noting Stanley Cavell’s observation that ‘the words strew obscurities across our path  and seem wilfully to thwart comprehension…yet …we discover that their meaning has been missed only because it was so utterly bare…totally in view’. An example of this missed meaning lies in the efforts of critics to apply meaning to the opening lines of The Unnamable, ‘Where now, who now, when now? where the point of the passage is to undo meaning, to ‘unquestion’, as the text says, to hold the focus on the empty word itself, not on the inference of question and of referent beyond the word.   Worstward Ho, is the book of on, it insists that we go on towards the real, pure language, which is ‘all’. We go on towards  ‘all’  having divested ourselves of the impulse to question, to ask what, or why ; we are being prepared to accept language as it is presented to us, empty.      The narrating voice in Worstward Ho, which is language speaking, having rid itself of the psychological subject, says ‘What seen? What said? What of all seen and said, not on them preying? ‘Beckett is, as Cavell says, speaking of that which is totally in view, the word itself, in this case the word ‘what’. For Beckett being is ‘all words’ so when he asks what of ‘all’ can be seen and said in the word ‘what’, he is suggesting, if ‘all’ is pure language, and pure language is reality, actually nothing of ‘ all’  can be seen or said in ‘what’, because seeing and saying are functions of the senses. The real as Plato, stresses cannot be perceived by the senses at all. Seeing and saying belong to the dimension of non-being, they are not of ‘all,’ not of reality. That of which they would speak   would   be a diminution, it would be ‘all’ contaminated   by the intrusion of what is perceived through the senses ’.    ‘All’ according to Beckett is when it rids itself of ‘of’ because ‘of’ is ‘soft’, it suggests that ‘all’ can be part of something wider, something more, but, the voice tells us, ‘all least’. Reality is the word stripped of every presupposition, of every influence imposed on it by the functions of the body, it is not of anything or in any place it just is. Beckett directs a serious admonition towards those who would prey on those words. Preying can mean to take advantage of, or to injure. In this case, in which the thrust of Beckett’s thinking is crystallized, injury would be caused by applying fixed meaning to words that would relate to referents in the familiar world. Beckett’s quest for the unpresentable insists that we go on, that we persist in confronting the assumptions of meaning and knowledge in the word until the word is emptied of such presuppositions.     By preying on the word ‘what’, the ‘them’ are misleading themselves –and in the case of critics, many classes of students as well. As Cavell notes, they demand further meaning, where in fact the meaning, which is non-meaning, is that which is nearest, the ‘utterly bare’ word itself.  Alas, the  them who prey on the word are ‘not on; ’ their level of consciousness  has not reached  that of those who go on, those who aspire to the truth of being, as Vladimir and Estragon do when they propose to  ‘go on’ from the body towards pure language in Waiting for Godot.  

Beckett’s philosophy is supported by the greatest thinkers but it surpasses all of theirs    by seeing language as the messianic life to come, the promise of the real. And we could note that the ancients believed that language is a gift from the Gods. The logic of his project negates the possibility of anything other than language being the real. His original and stylistically complex prose requires patient close reading, but the effort pays rich dividends. It is complex for the very definite purpose of stressing the superiority of language over that which is perceived, and reads,   like the great poetry -which in fact it is-where every word is measured and calculated, not to mean, but to destroy meaning, to show that even in the familiar world language can stand alone, can speak itself of itself, to itself, when all else subsides into the void of doubt. By so doing Beckett’s texts point to the remarkable proposition that language is the real, the life to come.


Bio: Dr Arthur Broomfield
Dr Arthur Broomfield is a poet, novelist, short story writer and Beckett scholar from County Laois, Ireland. His published works include When the Dust Settles  (International University Press 1993),  Language and Philosophy in the works of Samuel Beckett (Cambridge Scholars' Publishing 2014) Mice at the Threshing (Lapwing 2015) and Cold Coffee at Emo Court (Revival Press 2016)